


Out Of Your Vulnerabilities Will Come Your Strength

by misanthropiclycanthrope



Category: The Alienist (TV), The Alienist - Caleb Carr
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Repressed Idiots Who Really Need To Talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-08
Updated: 2018-05-08
Packaged: 2019-05-04 05:13:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14585709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misanthropiclycanthrope/pseuds/misanthropiclycanthrope
Summary: The notion crossed John’s mind that he could ask anything of Laszlo in that moment and the man would obey. Curiosity almost compelled him to try, but that wasn’t what Laszlo needed, and John thought that he was, perhaps, beginning to understand; Laszlo was relinquishing control to allow his own mind to fall silent.





	Out Of Your Vulnerabilities Will Come Your Strength

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea where this came from besides how fast and hard I fell for these two. I lay all blame at the feet of the usual culprits: alcohol and insomnia.
> 
> My default setting is fluff, so it stands to reason that any d/s I write is naturally fluffy.

It was maddening, watching Laszlo’s slow descent into insanity as he tried to unlock the unfathomable workings of a killer’s mind, attempting to find reason where none resided. John could almost - _almost_ \- forgive him his frustrated outbursts, the frequent and fervent censure, but it was beginning to rankle, this constant reminder that he was the most inadequate member of their little team.

Playing witness to Laszlo’s determined efforts to run himself to exhaustion - or worse - only added to his despair, and it was the depth of his worry rather than his dented pride that had given rise to the lump in his chest. A fist pressing against his heart, its pressure more insistent with every pacing step, every angry scratch of chalk, every aborted theory.

John was all too painfully aware of its cause, was the only one of them in such a position of familiarity to recognize how this aspect of the doctor was so dreadfully far removed from his typically reserved demeanor that it commanded a good measure of concern.

And so it was he found himself the only one still present - besides the preoccupied alienist, of course - with Sara having returned to her work and the Isaacson brothers off following some notion or another.

But God be damned if he was going to sit meekly by while Laszlo slowly unravelled.

“Laszlo, stop!” 

And, to John’s utter astonishment, Laszlo did, coming to an absolute standstill so abruptly it was almost as if John had physically struck him. He even seemed to be holding his breath, awaiting something John couldn’t even begin to fathom.

Further instruction?

The possibility seemed both absurd and entirely credible, and he almost laughed aloud at the irony that if anyone could explain such a bizarre reaction it would be Dr. Laszlo Kreizler. Now, however, he had only his own instincts, and he wasn’t sure he trusted himself enough to risk his dearest friendship.

Laszlo hadn’t moved. He remained perfectly still, patient, his body radiating _need_ , and in the end it was that mutual friendship, and John’s inability to deny Laszlo anything, that gave him the courage to continue.

“On your knees.” The words slipped from his tongue as a quiet but firm command, and John marvelled at how his voice didn’t waver. That surprise, however, was immediately superseded when Laszlo did as bidden, sinking to his knees and casting his gaze down at the floor, good arm cradling the bad in his lap. John’s breath caught in his throat at the sight, this open display of vulnerability, the glimpse behind the inscrutable mask the doctor usually wore.

The dizzying sense that he was venturing into uncharted territory, no map to guide his next step.

That Laszlo kept his eyes downcast made it easier somehow, gave John the freedom to fumble his way forward without fear of ridicule, and he did so tentatively, feeling for the right path like a man newly blind.

He turned a chair, angling it toward the kneeling figure, and sat down. His hand shook only minutely as he crooked his fingers, beckoning.

“Come here.”

Without rising from his knees, and heedless of the hard floor, Laszlo shuffled over and came to rest between John’s feet, falling still once more. 

The notion crossed John’s mind that he could ask anything of Laszlo in that moment and the man would obey. Curiosity almost compelled him to try, but that wasn’t what Laszlo needed, and John thought that he was, perhaps, beginning to understand; Laszlo was relinquishing control to allow his own mind to fall silent.

It was the implicit trust that astounded John the most, and he vowed there and then to safeguard it, hold it close to his heart.

Do whatever Laszlo required of him.

Slowly, as if he were reaching out to a skittish animal, John brushed his hand along Laszlo’s jaw, the bristles of his beard rasping against his palm, and smoothed his thumb across his cheek. Laszlo’s eyes fluttered shut at the touch, the doctor stunning John further when he leaned into the caress, until his head was resting on John’s thigh and John’s fingers were stroking through his hair.

The silence of the room was broken only by the soft ticking of the clock, yet time seemed to stand still. To shatter the tableau was unthinkable, and John allowed his own thoughts to drift away, finding his own peace in the rhythmic sweep of Laszlo’s hair through his fingers, the soft exhalations of his breathing. It was with no little surprise that he realized he had yet to crave a drink, that that particular need had failed to raise its ugly head since the moment Laszlo had fallen still for him.

His nerves, for once, had required no artificial fortification.

More time passed them slowly by and, loath as John was to disturb the moment, his consideration had turned to Laszlo’s physical comfort. If John was beginning to feel the need to stretch his legs, Laszlo must be even worse off, knelt as he was.

He stilled his hand but let it rest where it lay, a bridge of contact between them, a grounding connection.

“Laszlo, look at me.”

John waited as deep brown eyes blinked back into focus, tried to find the words to ask if Laszlo was all right. He didn’t need to; Laszlo must have read the question in his expression, for he straightened and gave John a nod as he composed himself, the diligent doctor John was so well acquainted with returning to the surface, albeit with a now somewhat calmer demeanor.

Rising, John extended a hand to help Laszlo to his feet, steadying him as the blood flow returned to his legs. The hand on his arm was warm, even through the fabric of his shirt, and when, after a few moments, Laszlo released his grip, John instantly missed its pressure. The heat, however, remained, a brand scorched into his flesh.

Laszlo cleared his throat and turned away, giving his attention to the table strewn with papers, running a hand through his hair to tame it back into place. It felt like a dismissal, and John failed to suppress the pang of hurt in his heart. He had served his use, it seemed, and that was to be that.

Damn the man. Perhaps a drink was called for after all.

Angrily yanking on his coat and gloves, he almost missed his name, so softly was it spoken. Looking back over his shoulder, he found himself fixed by warm dark eyes so familiar and yet more open and unguarded than John had ever seen them.

At an uncharacteristic loss for words, Laszlo faltered, his uncertainty evident in the fidgeting of his good hand. John smiled; Laszlo didn’t need to say a word. For once, his emotions were written plain on his face, and it was John’s turn to nod, accepting the silent gratitude and adding his own unspoken promise that this would remain only between them.

And that he would always be whatever Laszlo needed him to be.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is Freud.


End file.
